Visions of Sugarplums
by Caporal
Summary: In which yet another of Agent Sands' many hidden talents is revealed. Involves mild slash, excessive silliness and extreme meta.


**Warnings:** Beware of slash (Sands/El, to be precise), extreme meta, brief mention of prostitution,and tutus. Otherwise, frighteningly tame.

**Notes: **Inspired by a fic over at the agentsands LJ comm. Not intended to be even remotely serious in any way whatsoever. The remix is real, and was made by alovely young woman of my aquaintance. The term _danseur_ is the usual term for a male dancer.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Robert Rodriguez would probably be horrified, but then again, he might be amused. Credit where credit is due to mordredsade, Tchaikovsky and the creator of the remix in question. Special thanks to Gore Verbinsky and Johnny Depp.

* * *

**Visions of Sugarplums**

He was Agent Sheldon Jeffery Sands, of the Central Intelligence Agency. He threw shapes. He set them up. He watched them fall. He was Mexico's prime manipulator, keeping the balance via cell phone and bad wigs. He was a man of cunning wiles and of secrets.

One of these last, possibly the best-kept of them all was the fact that he was an accomplished _danseur_. Had he not opted for intelligence work,the AmericanBallet Theatre, among others, would have been happy to havehim. Nevertheless, he _had_ opted for a career with the CIA, and left the world of the performing arts behind for good. Perhaps unfortunately, however, such an intrinsic part of him _would_ try to make itself known once in a while.

This was one of those whiles.

It wasn't his fault, really. He'd been sitting in a corner of the Club Mariachi, appreciating the low, sensual voice of El's whore of a friend. He'd contemplated counting out fifty pesos, but decided that, being unable to do it himself, he wouldn't trust any of the dubious patrons of the club to do it for him, and settled for listening, which, after all, had to be almost as good as looking in this case.

Then the announcer had announced, as was his wont to do, that it being Christmas, they were going to play a remixed selection from _The Nutcracker_, courtesy the combined efforts of modern technology and a certain Mr. Tchaikovsky. Accordingly, the live entertainment -the musical part of it, anyway- stepped down for drinks as the rhythmic strains of what was undeniably the _Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy_, despite the heavy drumbeat now in the background, pounded out of the amplifiers.

Maybe it was one tequila and lime too many, or maybe there was something Albertan in the pork these days. More likely, he'd finally done what he'd been threatening to do since Day One and finally gone entirely postal, but Sands had felt his toes begin to twitch.

"Sands?"

The heavily accented voice was accompanied by a jingling audible even above the music, or maybe that was just to Sands' highly-trained ears.

"Hi El."

The mariachi regarded him quizzically, more than a little bit glad that Sands couldn't see his expression.

"I did not know you could stand on your toes." he said in as neutral a tone as possible.

Sands nearly giggled, but caught himself in time and instead managed the closest a hella-flye badass gunfighting secret agent could get to a giggle.

"You've forgotten one very important thing, then." he drawled, latching onto El's lapels.

"And that is?"

"I'm _Sheldon Jeffery Sands_" As though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

El rolled his eyes.

"Do you want to get ourselves out of here?"

Sands pouted, if a hella-flye badass gunfighting secret agent could pout. (As it turned out, they couldn't, so he had to compromise, and pouted _dangerously_)

"No, I don't." And _fouettéed _to accentuate the point.

El lowered his voice to a deep and throaty whisper. It would have made Lorenzo proud.

"And what if I asked for a... private performance?"

Sands cocked an eyebrow over his sunglasses, one of the few eye-related expressions he was still capable of (and proud, sugar-butt).

"Well now, that depends..."

"Or even" El murmured "a _pas de deux_"

Sands wavered. El pressed on.

"I choreographed it myself, you know. With _you_ in mind."

"Well now. I think you've got yourself a deal there, pal. On one condition."

"And that is?"

Sands smiled likethe catwho had just licked the cream right off the canary.

"Got any tutus?"

* * *


End file.
